


Reveille

by silverlined



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-05 02:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14034372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverlined/pseuds/silverlined
Summary: A round up of my Black Panther tumblr shorts, headcanons and drabbles.1. MITverse: you never know who you'll meet in college2. MITverse timestamp: and drive3. Sugar daddy AU: spoiler - it's not actually a sugar daddy au4. Kindergarten AU: ft. Actual Disney Prince T'challa5. Nyan'jadaka: Erik the (asshole) cat





	1. MITverse: the beginning

**Author's Note:**

> My blog is a mess and I was asked to gather all of my drabbles into someplace easy to access. I also really like re-words. It's a bit of a problem. 
> 
> The beginning of i'm a trust fund baby, you can trust me by victoriousscarf was based off my MITverse so it may seem familiar.

Some notes from that really self indulgent au where T’challa studies at MIT under the guise of the son of a rich businessman. At the same time as Erik. 

Erik, who is a really fuckin angry bean, just aged out of the foster care system, full ride scholarship to MIT and a plan that’s already been ten years in the making to ace his classes and join the military except 

In his International Studies class, there’s a baby deer of a boy, literally gets teary eyed at some of the videos they watch, yelling about unilateral trade agreements and globalisation and 

He keeps on bumping into him, looking confused at the grocery store, trying to figure out how to ride the bus (T’challa looks at him wide-eyed when they finally manage to get on, Erik somehow next to him in the window seat, thighs pressed together. “Fossil fuels,” he breaths, massively confused. “ _Why?_ ”), trying to order coffee at the tiny little fair trade hole in the wall coffee shop and coming away with something that’s all whipped cream and confusion and

He wouldn’t be a brother if he could let freaking Bambi die so they fall into a friendship that’s half T’challa dragging Erik to the farmer’s market on the weekends, being a little snooty over the range of produce available and filling bags with brightly coloured fruits and vegetables and 

T’challa separates out his recycling religiously, hates the thought of waste, can pull together giant pots of deliciousness to feed the entire block but manages to set the fire alarm off making toast and can’t feed only himself for the life of him. He has a coffee machine that looks like it’s out of a sci-fi movie that his six year old sister made him for his birthday and a collection of plush cats that he’s collecting to send home to her, hand knitted from the handicrafts market that he makes Erik go to, 

 

("I’ll make dinner,” Erik says firmly after the third time T’challa makes enough food for a small army and they spend half the evening visiting the neighbours to distribute it, getting pulled in for coffee and powdery lipsticked cheek kisses from the neighbourhood matriarchs. 

It’s mac’n’cheese from a box and boiled hotdogs with the saddest, limpest excuse for a side salad Erik has ever seen but T’challa chokes it all down uncomplaining. 

“It’s lovely,” T’challa lies unconvincingly, spine straight with indignation. “Very cultural.” 

Erik laughs at him and they do the dishes together, bumping shoulders and getting water all over the kitchen floor.) 

 

T’challa’s apartment is beautiful, large and airy and the first time Erik steps foot in it, he freezes and says, “You’re hella rich.” 

There’s an entire wall of windows and furniture in rich dark wood, a couch draped over with colourful blankets that T’challa wears wrapped around his shoulders at home, sweetly snug. 

 

(“We gotta work on your education,” Erik says firmly and plants them on the couch, a stack of Disney dvds borrowed from the library. 

“What’s Bambi?” T’challa asks, leafing through them. 

“You are.” 

“Erik.” 

“All wobbly and wide-eyed and shit.” 

“ _Erik_.”

“Just watch the movie, Bambi.” 

Erik regrets it about twelve minutes later when T’challa is unashamedly weeping  _on his shoulder_  when Bambi’s mother gets shot.) 

 

(”That,” T’challa says indignantly, sitting straight up, “Is not how royalty behaves!” 

“They’re Disney princesses.” 

“And their parents! What’s wrong with the monarchies in these kingdoms, do they care about their people at all? Why are they using their daughters as political chess pieces instead of-”) 

 

(”What sort of princess has never interacted with their people! How can she not know what trade is!” 

Erik tosses him an apple. “Absolutely no idea.”) 

 

(”ARIEL,” T’challa wails furiously. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING, YOU’LL BREAK YOUR FATHER’S HEART.”) 

 

T’challa skypes with his family literally every single day, and at first Erik tries to avoid being there when he does but it’s impossible, Shuri and T’challa live in each other’s pockets and 

Erik almost busts a lung trying to laugh silently when six year old Shuri and twenty-something T’challa solemnly discuss “Why Do Americans Do The Thing” about American football and fast food and college life and they are wrong, wrong, wrong but occasionally far too right 

Shuri is a  _delight_ , smart as a whip and roasts her brother mercilessly. Erik takes to sending her photos, T’challa trying to learn how to skateboard and failing miserably, T’challa playing DDR, that ill-fated attempt to get T’challa into clothes that look like they’re from this time period and T’challa’s unimpressed eyebrow 

 

(”Your clothes are all four sizes too big,” T’challa says which is rich for someone whose entire wardrobe is black suits in a delicious range of black on black patterns and weaves. 

“You dress like a witch.”) 

 

(”The crotch of those pants are between your knees.” 

“Well,” Erik drawls, sprawling back on the couch and letting his knees splay. “Sometimes you need a bit more room-”) 

 

(”Are those  _crocs_?” Erik says, delighted. 

“They’re comfortable!”) 

 

T’challa insists on watching the Lion King again together with Shuri, and Erik spends this time round watching T’challa more than the screen. 


	2. Sugar Daddy AU: A well dressed man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein superheroes don't exist and many things are surprisingly much the same. 
> 
> It's not actually a sugar daddy au.

 

It goes like this. Erik, CIA agent fresh off a mission and given enforced leave, sitting in a classy hotel bar because he doesn’t keep an apartment when he’s never home (what’s a home, anyway) (everything that’s important to him can fit in the palm of his hand- it’s easy to shed possessions going from one foster home to another and he’s had to learn to travel light) and after a spectacular failure at an attempt at a relationship that had ended with literal fire and a bit too much screaming even for his drama loving ass, 

He’s looking for easy and no strings attached, something where he can throw some dollars at for a warm body and a little companionship and there’s this gorgeous man by the lifts, saying goodnight to an older gentleman that Erik can’t quite see properly through the ferns and plants in the lobby, but he can read the gentle affection in the man’s body language when he leans in for a cheek kiss before heading towards the bar. 

It’s luck and probably fate (says the tumbler of whiskey that Erik’s already tossed back) that brings tall, dark and handsome to sit next to him at the long stretch of polished bar. In profile, Erik can actually see the long curl of his eyelashes which is just ridiculous. The cut of his suit and touch of gold at his throat all scream subtle money, sleek and smooth like a pampered house cat. 

Erik wants to muss him up. 

“Daddy don’t need you tonight?” he asks, flashing his teeth in a grin. 

Prettyboy blinks quizzically at him. “Yes, I have been granted free time tonight.” The accent is a surprise but definitely not unwelcome. “I apologise, but do I know you?” 

“Not yet.” Erik grins, a flash of gold teeth, and holds out his hand for Prettyboy to shake. He doesn’t let it go.  “But you will.” 

Taj (”My name is T-” he stumbles here, then looks up as if daring Erik to say something. “Taj. My name is Taj.”) is a good conversationalist, intelligent and well-versed in current affairs and absolutely, incredibly discrete as fuck. 

He’s accompanying his ‘father on a business trip’, Taj says demurely, and doesn’t give any further details, not even when Erik - who won awards for interrogation - subtly probes him. 

“I’m a consultant,” Erik says with a grin that shows a few too many teeth. “Military, mainly. You wouldn’t believe the money they shell out.” 

“Oh?” Taj says, politely, because he’s far too classy to mention money. Erik likes it. He also wants to bite bruises onto his neck, but that’s probably extra. 

“Day rates up to $2000.” 

Taj doesn’t even blink but also doesn’t throw his drink into Erik’s face, so that’s as good a sign as any that his offer’s been accepted. Erik shifts his stool a little closer. 

 

They get into an argument about physics of all things (and Taj is clearly wrong because there’s not a substance on Earth that has the properties he’s describing) and that gets Erik hot under the collar as much as the sharp lines of the suit Taj is wearing, black on black on black. Almost. 

It’s a  _really_  nice suit. 

It’ll look even better off. 

 

Taj glows when he talks about visiting the National Science Museum and playing with the hands-on experiments (”It is a wonderful initiative for children!”) and wrinkles his nose ever so slightly when talking about American food (”There is so much butter, it seems… excessive.”) and  _giggles_ , sweet and low, when Erik runs his hands up his ribs while stripping him from his fancy suit. 

Even his underwear is black, a scrap of soft silk. 

“Very continental,” Erik smirks. 

“Americans,” Taj laughs, a little breathless. “No culture.” 

“You could do with some American in you,” Erik says and cuts off Taj’s appalled laughter with his mouth. 

 

Room service wakes T’challa up the next morning, alone (”Stay the whole night,” Erik had said, pressing him into the mattress. “But I gotta go early.”) but pleasantly relaxed and sore. 

He takes a moment to fuss with finding a robe, scrounging up a couple of dollars for a tip (American customs were so very strange) and signing for the order. 

It’s french toast. 

Golden brown fried in butter and dripping in berries and powdered sugar, like a heart attack waiting to happen. T’challa laughs and guiltily eats the entire thing. 

 

When he gets dressed, in yesterday’s suit and  _missing his underwear_ , T’challa finds on the nightstand: 

  * A hotel keycard,
  * A disconcertingly large stack of notes, and
  * A note written on hotel notepaper with a phone number and “Get yourself something nice. Let’s do this again. - Erik S.” on it. 



Americans, T’challa muses, were  _exceptionally_  strange. 

 

They do it again. 

It takes a while for them to line up being in the same place again, Taj on ‘business’ and himself on various missions around the world. 

(”Don’t your daddy mind?” Erik asks while he’s marking up Taj’s neck in a necklace of bruises. 

“This has nothing to do with him,” Taj says primly, and “ _Harder,_ ” in a sharp gasp so the matter is firmly dropped.) 

It’s easy like this - first in anonymous hotel rooms, but also dinner and drinks, wandering around museums and making snide commentary over the displays. He finds himself picking up trinkets for Taj, pretty beads and scarves, just to make him smile. 

(”You shouldn’t have!” Taj exclaims over a couple of rials worth of beads, but the way his eyes crinkle as he smiles makes it a lie. 

“I have not brought you anything,” Taj sounds dismayed but brightens and starts unfastening his cufflinks, warm wood set in silver. “Here, take these. They are from my home country.”) 

Taj is so good at this that he could almost believe it’s real. 

 

T’challa doesn’t stop finding stacks of money on the nightstand and at this point, it’s too late to ask so he just goes with it - another sign of Erik’s generosity alongside the bright silk scarves and gold, the framed print from the museum, the plush stingray from the aquarium. 

He’s never had a lover like this before, and doesn’t have the American contacts to ask. 

“Does he have no personality that he is trying to buy your affection,” is Okoye’s opinion, dry and cutting. 

“Do you think he’ll take you to Disneyland?” Shuri says, and, “According to the internet, all Americans are crazy  _anyway_. Hey, touch this for me, would you?” 

The conversation is postponed until T’challa can get the ringing in his ears to stop. 

Nakia is deep undercover for a mission and T’challa doesn’t think he could talk to her about this anyway, the one night stand he’d picked up after they’d parted ways. Respectfully. Having decided they didn’t want the same things. 

A one night stand that had turned into more. 

 

It goes on for months, exchanging text messages almost daily, meeting up when they can in cities all around the world. 

 _In Busan_ , Erik types, nodding along to Everett Ross like he’s listening to every word. Something about a babysitting mission crossed with a retrieval, a foreign cooperation mission.

Ross stops and stands directly in front of Erik until Erik’s forced to look at him. “Prince T’challa,” he says sternly, “is to be treated respectfully. Do you hear me?”

Erik snaps off a salute. “Loud and clear.” 

When Ross turns his back to open the door, Erik quickly types out,  _probably for a we_

“Prince T’challa,” Ross announces. “May I introduce Erik Stevens. Erik is-”

 Erik looks up. 

And drops his phone. 

“ _What_ ,” he breathes, looking at his classy not-a-cheap-date escort sitting in the office chair like a throne, dressed in the same sharply tailored suit as always. He’s flanked by an intimidating woman, head shaved, holding a spear of all things. “ _The fucking fuck is this._ ”

Prince T’challa stares wide eyed back at him. “Erik.” 

There’s a long pause. 

“… . …. ..  .hi.” 

The woman sighs. 

 

Everett’s not sure what’s going on, except that one of his best agents and the Crown Prince of Wakanda are huddled together into the far corner of the room, having a frantic whispered conversation. 

His first attempt at heading over had been stopped with a spear point held to his neck. 

He hadn’t tried again. 

Both Stevens and the prince were gesturing, hands flying through the air. 

“I can’t  _believe_  you,” Stevens shout-whispers loud enough for Everett to overhear and the prince buries his face in his hands, reply muffled. 

“What?” Stevens snaps and T’challa looks up at him, and wails, endlessly flustered,

“Americans tip for everything else!” 

And suddenly, Stevens is laughing and the prince is as well and Everett throws up his hands and turns to Okoye in exasperation. 

“Wanna go get a drink?” 

She stares at him. “No.” 

 

 

 

 

 

(“I fucking deflected a bullet with my  _cufflink,_ ” Erik says, waving said cufflink menacingly. 

It glints, suspiciously unscratched.

“Um,” T’challa says. “… What do you know about vibranium?”) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I firmly believe that if T'challa in any universe tried to sugar daddy Erik, Erik would fucking shank a bitch and steal his wallet, but I also couldn't make it work the other way so. This is what you get, guys.


	3. MITverse: Drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a reason why Shuri invented the remote control driving system.

The thing is, T'challa is incredibly, amazingly  _bad_  at Mario Cart.

Erik covers his eyes. “Shuri, tell me when it’s safe to look.”

“He’s driving backwards,” Shuri says cheerfully over the voice chat. Both of them had finished four laps ago, but T'challa had been determined to finish the course. “No, wait, he’s not. He’s driven into the barriers and now he’s stuck.”

“No backseat driving,” T'challa growls, about as intimidating as a baby deer, which Erik naturally tells him as part of his national service.

He’s a giver like that.

“You’re not really driving at all,” Shuri adds helpfully and laughs when T'challa throws up his hands with a groan, sending his cart careening off the track.

 

“ _That’s_  your car?” Erik gawks.

T'challa doesn’t drive normally - Erik hadn’t even known he could, with his fondness and bemusement over the public transit system (“It’s privatised and for profit, how is that public?”) and love of taking long meandering walks around the neighbourhood.

It’s not until Erik goes on a twenty minute rant about zoning and the existence of food deserts in the poorer communities that T'challa volunteers his car and takes them into the underground parking lot beneath the apartment.

“The Jaguar,” T'challa says helpfully, pointing at the gleaming black monument to rampant capitalism. “Shuri insisted.”

Erik squints at the tiny little smile that T'challa’s wearing but dismisses it as part of the ridiculous in-jokes the siblings share. There’s something about cats that he hasn’t figured out yet.

“Uh huh,” he says dubiously and catches T'challa by the shoulders, turning him around so they’re face to face. “Look into my eyes and tell me you can drive this baby.”

T'challa looks at him from inches away, sweet and steady, perfectly sincere. “I can drive.”

“Sure,” Erik agrees and reaches out to cover T'challa’s eyes. “Now without looking, you got five seconds to tell me what side of the road we drive on. Five.”

“Excuse me?”

“Four.”

“That is ridiculous!”

“Three. Two”

“It-”

“One.”

“Does it even matter?” T'challa squawks and to Erik’s delight, he’s  _pouting_ , a sulky little jut of his lower lip.

“Yeah, man,” Erik tells him, laughing a little despite himself. “It really really does.” He lets T'challa go, brushing his hands casually down to straighten T'challa’s suit.

“I would have figured it out,” T'challa says with greatly wounded dignity. “Eventually.”

“Uh huh,” Erik laughs and dangles the keys he’d swiped from T'challa’s pockets in his face. “Your driving privileges are revoked.”

“Erik!”

 

“I cannot believe you are conspiring with my sister,” T'challa says sulkily from the passenger seat. He’s poking at the radio having veto'ed any of Erik’s suggestions.

“Gotta get good with her early,” Erik drawls. The leather seats of the jag cradle him like a lover’s caress and the low throw of the engine, (the plush curve of T'challa’s lip), makes heat simmer low in his belly. “She gonna rule the world one day.”

And that’s what makes T'challa smile, spreading sweet and wide like daybreak over his face. “Yes,” he says. “She will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot believe they were sponsored by Lexus and not Jaguar. I will never get over this betrayal.


	4. KindergartenAU: ft. Actual Disney Prince T'challa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: ohh as a prompt, i’m thinking a single parent au? i’m leaning towards erik as the parent <3

HAVE YOU CONSIDERED 

_SALTY PRESCHOOL TEACHER ERIK_  

who went through the foster care system and he says he Does Not Like kids but fuck if he’s going to let them act stupid in front of him because  _respect his authority_ , you tiny little drunken rage midgets, and kids  _love him_. He doesn’t talk down to him, he makes hysterical rage faces, calls them  _cotton candy_  and  _gumdrop_ like he’s swearing hard enough to make a sailor blush. (” _Fairy floss_ ,” Erik growls when something goes wrong and he’s done it enough in his work life that it carries over to his off time, and no one dares say anything about it because he walks like a predator poorly hidden in a sheep’s skin.) 

Erik ends up doing early education and bounces around working at different preschools for a while, getting steadily more disillusioned because they’re underfunded and expensive, meeting parents that have to work long hours just to make ends meet and sacrifice family time in the meantime. Everything’s  _broken_  around the childcare system (around America as a whole) and it’s the kids that suffer. 

 

He’s headhunted for a job at a newish center and their outreach program for foster kids, and he’s doing this  _just_  to see how badly they’ll fuck it up because he’s seen savior syndrome his entire life, and it’s just 

It’s clean and bright and airy, and he’s greeted by an absolute mountain of a man who stares him down impassively. Erik bares his teeth. 

“Relax,” M’baku booms, clapping Erik hard enough on the shoulder that Erik almost staggers. “We don’t bite. Or, I don’t. Some of the kids do.” 

(M’baku runs the center but when he can get away from the paperwork and the  _admin_ , he’s on the playground, chasing the kids and threatening to eat them while they giggle and shriek and climb all over him. He can dangle three from one arm, flexing his biceps.) 

By the door, there’s a little girl saying goodbye to her guardian (Erik can only see the back of him, broad shoulders, slim waist, legs that go on for  _days_ ), finishing up a short secret handshake. She’s dressed in bright colours, hair expertly tied in two buns on the top of head. 

“Shuri,” M’baku calls, and the girl bounces over, collecting a little boy on the way. 

“This is Shuri and Peter,” M’baku rests one huge palm on the top of Peter’s head, and Peter smiles shyly. His hoodie looks brand new, still too crisp and bright. “The techno terror twins. If anything breaks, go to them.” 

“They’re four,” Erik says blankly. 

“They probably broke it.” 

“You mean made it  _better_ ,” Shuri chirps and grins up at them, wide and toothy.

 

Shuri’s one of the few kids with an actual birth parent still around, Erik finds out. 

“She’s an exception,” M’baku says and refuses to give any more details. 

There’s Peter who lives with his aunt, Wade with the attention deficit disorder and Erik has never worked at a place before that’s so  _resourced_  to see to his needs, W’kabi who is one of the older children who wears a blanket draped around his shoulders and carries a plush rhino everywhere he goes, a half dozen more kids who are as a whole loud and confident and  _bright_. 

By luck or circumstance or the will of M’baku (which is Stronger Than God on centre premises), Erik doesn’t manage to actually meet Shuri’s father when he does manage to come pick her up instead of sending his… Erik isn’t sure who, only know she’s intimidating as fuck despite being a head shorter and about 50lbs lighter. 

She reminds him of his favourite foster parent, took no shit from no one and kept him off the streets through a combination of yelling, a sharp pinch of his earlobe and sheer bloody-mindedness. He goes back each Thanksgiving to spend it with her. 

“Okoye,” she introduces herself, face stoically calm, no other details. The smile that spreads over her face when Shuri flings herself into her arms is surprisingly beautiful. 

When she leaves, hand in hand with Shuri, W’kabi tugs on Erik’s hand until he swoops down and whispers into his ear, “I’m gonna marry her.”  

 

Erik wants to be mad that Shuri’s father doesn’t make the time to drop her off and pick her up all the time, but it’s hard when she comes bubbling in on a Monday morning talking about ‘family day’ and star gazing and visiting the science museum, home made experiment clutched in her hand to show off.

“We put an egg in vinegar, and now it’s jelly,” she tells him, seriously, and then busts out the six syllable words explaining to Peter the science behind it. (“Decalcification,” she coos lovingly. Peter manages the break the egg all over his feet.) He’s being underestimated by a preschooler. This is, unexpectedly, great.

She brings in needles to float on water (”Surface tension!”), paper planes (clumsy examples folded by childish hands and strange designs with crisp folds that fly the entire length of the basketball court), her high-tech tablet with a video of the bi-carb soda volcano splattering (”Baba said I couldn’t bring the real thing in because he likes M’baku too much,” Shuri pouts and M’baku laughs, a little less the manifestation of evil and more fond than Erik's used to hearing), and she’s the brightest child Erik’s ever met, full of wonder at a world that seems boundless for her.

 

Erik properly meets Actual Disney Prince T'challa (“Why are you calling him that,” Erik asks M'baku suspiciously, who just laughs at him as usual.) several months into the job when he’s been well and truly seduced by the small class sizes, clean dust-free corners and the smell of sun dried blankets during nap time.

All he’s saying is, his defences were already at an all time low, so it was a little unfair for M'baku to wave him over.

“This is-” (Actual Disney Prince, Erik’s mind-voice helpfully supplies) “-T'challa,” M'baku says with a really fucking suspicious twinkle in his eye. Erik hates him. M'baku, who was descended from the devil himself, lays one massive hand on his shoulder.

“T'challa’s VP at Black Panther inc.” Wait, what? “He’s the one who put together the initiative for the center.”

Erik’s brain short circuits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to jellify an egg, soak it in white vinegar for at least 24 hr. replace vinegar and repeat. the vinegar breaks down the calcium carbonate in the egg shell, leaving only the membrane! 
> 
> we did this in primary school and some kid did, actually, drop the egg all over his shoes.


	5. Nyan'jadaka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik the (asshole) cat.

 

 Shuri is the one that finds Erik. From the shelter, she says, a rescue tom with one torn ear and gold eyes, sleek fur and heavy muscle. 

“You’re lonely and it’s pathetic,” she says when she drops Erik off at T’challa’s apartment. 

“Stop,” T’challa groans but he’s already peering into the cat carrier, bright eyed. Erik stares back at him. 

“I’m helping you fulfill your  _destiny_ ,” Shuri says. “Crazy cat lady.” 

T’challa sighs. 

 

“He’s a  _menace._ ”

“Did he pee on your shoes again?” Shuri asks brightly. “Because that’s just public service.” 

T’challa squints at her. “Is this revenge? Did I mortally offend you at some point?” 

“You wore socks with your old man sandals. It’s basically a killing offense.” Lightning fast, Shuri brings up her phone and snaps a photo of her brother’s face. 

With the grace of one who has long accepted his place in the pecking order, T’challa ignores her. “He keeps on bringing me gifts.” 

“Gifts,” Shuri repeats, bringing up her phone again. 

T’challa places a finger over the lens and glares at her. “Offerings, maybe?” 

“Should I call Okoye? Is this something we should both be here to laugh at you?” 

“Dead animals,” T’challa continues, stoically miserable. “Squirrels. Rats. They’re not even small.” 

“Oh my god. He’s feeding you.” 

“I’m not  _eating_ them.” 

“You’re his helpless baby kitten. He’s hunting for you. It’s actually sort of sweet.” 

“You’ve given me a miniature serial killer.” 

“I’m calling him Killmonger,” Shuri says rapturously. “Twitter’s going to love him.” 

“I hate you both.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just lost a thousand words of MITverse to windows update so here's an old snippet :(

**Author's Note:**

> prompts are open at nobunyaaga@tumblr.


End file.
